


move to me like i'm a motown beat

by squash1



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: AU - Music Business, Audio Engineer Noah, Declan means well, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Producer Ronan, Slow Burn, Songwriter Adam, Superstar Helen, loosely based on the film Music & Lyrics, poorly researched details about the music industry, specific warnings before each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-18 07:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13677495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squash1/pseuds/squash1
Summary: One too many slip-ups lands Ronan back in rehab, by courtesy of his brother Declan. When he gets out, a deal is waiting for him: He gets to keep his contract with the Lynches' record label, gets to see his mother and Matthew and visit the Barns. In return, all he has to do is produce Helen Gansey's new album.Falling for songwriter Adam Parrish was not part of the deal, but Ronan will take it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am super excited to post my first multi-chapter Pynch fic!
> 
> I'll update as often as I can, chapter 2 should be up by the weekend at the latest. 
> 
> Also, I don't know much about the music industry or how music is actually made and produced, but I hope the details in this will suffice for the story to unfold without any major issues.
> 
> Wanna listen to some jams whist reading?
> 
> **[apple music playlist](https://itunes.apple.com/at/playlist/move-to-me-like-im-a-motown-beat/pl.u-leylMKefxLv7oZ)/ [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/julia022/playlist/1mPCsCDRUyFI2khYacdLe8) ** → if you want you can add those to your library and listen to the update every time i post a new chapter. in each update post i make on tumblr (@s-argent). 
> 
> ⁓ Apologies for drawing all my inspirations for fic titles from Taylor Swfit songs lmao (but listen to King Of My Heart and tell me it's NOT a pynch song, i dare you!).
> 
> **Warnings for chapter 1:** references to alcoholism, Declan in his big brother mode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to add the songs in my playlist for this fic at the beginning of each chapter. Follow me on tumblr (@s-argent) for more updates on this and hit me up there if you want the full spotify/apple music playlist!
> 
> Title track:  
> ∗ King of My Heart / Taylor Swift
> 
> Songs for Chapter 1:  
> ∗ Champagne Clouds / Malia Civetz   
> ∗ Pursuit of Happiness (Steve Aoki Remix) / Kid Cudi

Ronan comes home to a cold, empty apartment. The ceiling lights soak the sleek furniture designs in a uninviting sheen and he is painfully reminded of the warm comfort of his childhood home where there was always a familiar face to greet him, always the crackle of the fireplace to welcome him. But not here. A chill penetrates even the thick leather of his coat and it becomes evident that the heating has been off for multiple months. That’s what those floor-length windows will do in the biting January weather of New York City. Ronan can hear the snobbish voice of his realtor warning him to give the place a few hours to warm up should he ever be gone for a longer amount of time. Alas, he had other worries during the time he was gone.

The elevator doors close behind him and Ronan steps away from the entryway, dropping his keys in a large decorative glass bowl by the coat rack and toeing off his sneakers. _Home sweet home_ , he muses.

When he ventures further into the apartment, Ronan’s first hunch is to check the fridge, but he is disappointed to find it empty par from a jar of green olives. Images of entertaining gentlemen with dazzling smiles as sharp as the cut of their designer suit jackets flood his memory, mixing Dirty Martinis for them to nip on as they lounge before the backdrop of the city’s skyline. Ronan grimaces, not particularly fond of olives or reminiscing on good old times, and dumps the half-empty jar into the bin beneath the sink. He musters the cupboards and the drinks cart next, finding no trace of liquor anywhere. Even the top-secret stash in the linen closet under the fancy guest towels is gone. Declan really did stay true to his promise to help Ronan stay sober for good.

He must have had someone clear out Ronan’s apartment whilst Ronan was away. The last Ronan remembers of his apartment all those months ago was its desolate state, with sofa cushions and empty bottles scattered on the floor, the bass from the stereo rattling his eardrums and the morning sun harsh in his eyes. Declan had found him that Sunday morning, worried something bad had happened to him because Ronan hadn’t shown up for church. “I’m checking you into rehab,” he’d said, pulling Ronan up by his elbow and pushing him to sit on the couch. “I can’t believe you relapsed again. This is the last time I’m ever helping your stupid ass out. You can’t keep risking our reputation like this.”

_Our reputation_. Cabeswater Records, Niall Lynch’s passion project that Declan had taken over all those years ago after their father’s passing, is one of the biggest labels in the industry and Ronan’s drinking has been a thorn in his brother’s eye for as long as he can remember. Sometimes Ronan wonders why Declan doesn’t just drop him from the label; he’s committed more contract violations than he can count and why the usually painfully strict CEO is being so patient in this case is a mystery to Ronan. Perhaps he is a believer in ‘third time’s the charm’ patterns of success, why else would he send Ronan off to a rehab clinic for the third time and pay a ridiculous sum of money to a ridiculous amount of people to keep the ‘faux-pas’, as he likes to refer to it, well under wraps.

The _ding_ of the elevator shakes Ronan out of his thoughts and brings him back to the present. He glances over to the entryway to see a burly man dressed head-to-toe in black step out into the apartment. He sets down a large duffle bag and subtly adjusts his earpiece.

“Here you go, Mr. Lynch,” the man Ronan knows to be one of Declan’s security guards says.

“Thanks,” Ronan says dismissively from his place by the kitchen isle, “You can leave now.”

The guard looks uncomfortable as he takes another step into the apartment and fumbles with his breast pocket for a moment before retrieving Ronan’s cell phone from it. Ronan had hoped no one would notice if he left his phone behind at the clinic. “Sir, your brother requested that I stay until you’ve called him.”

“Son of a bitch,” Ronan swears, but the profanity is not directed at the guard. He snatches the phone out of the guard’s hand, dials one of the three numbers saved in it, and presses it to his ear. Declan picks up on the second ring.

“Ronan. Did you get home okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m glad you called.”

“You gave me no other choice.”

“Ah, well, I knew you wouldn’t reach out voluntarily.”

“You’re an asshole.”

At that, Declan _tsk_ s. Ronan is livid.

“Now, little brother, I hope you have an easy time settling back in. And remember our deal.”

Right. The deal. Ronan grunts in response.

“I set up for us to have a meeting tomorrow at 11am, we can discuss this matter more thoroughly then. Have a good night, Ronan.”

“ _Good night, Declan_ ,” Ronan mocks over the phone but the line cuts off before he can finish articulating his brother’s name.

“Now you can leave,” Ronan spits into the general direction of the security guard, who merely nods and vanishes through the elevator doors moments later.

And all at once, Ronan is alone. _Really_ alone for the first time in months. Even at the clinic, there was a constant rustling and bustling outside of his private room, nurses and security personnel and other patients never truly leaving his space. His apartment is different. Here, he is completely alone. For a short moment, he considers calling Noah but decides against it. Ronan hasn’t spoken to his best friend in weeks and the longer he evades the attempts at communication the more awkward he feels. Besides, Ronan is less of an initiator of conversations and more of a ‘text me your location and I’ll be there in 20’ kind of friend, and he’d prefer to keep it that way.

Instead of calling Noah, he calls to order pizza and a somber can of Coca Cola, a lonesome dinner for one. With no desire for a film or playlist to keep him company, Ronan eats in silence.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Ronan is almost late for his meeting with Declan. Almost meaning he arrives ten minutes late at Cabeswater HQ thanks to what he believes to be the slowest cab driver in all of Manhattan, but when he surges to the front desk the receptionist informs him that his brother’s chauffeur is having car trouble, making Declan late as well. Ronan breathes a sigh of relief and wipes an imaginary bead of sweat off his brow. The receptionist laughs and asks him to sit down in the waiting area. No funny looks from her or anyone he has encountered at the label’s headquarters so far. Declan really has stuck to his end of the deal.

“Go to rehab, get clean, and come back to work on whatever project I assign you. You do this, and I’ll keep your _slip up_ out of the papers,” Declan reminds him twenty minutes later. He is sat behind his impressive mahogany desk, just like this building and this company an heirloom of the late Niall Lynch. Ronan sits facing him, feeling strangely intimidated by the portrait of his father looming over him from above Declan’s gelled coiffure. Beneath them, the city is alive as ever, people moving alongside and past each other like parts of a well-oiled machine. The Lynch brothers have let the mechanics of their own engine rust, lost in a malfunction, a familial defect.

“I know how much you value your privacy, Ronan,” he adds after a few beats of silence. A car honk can be heard from the street far beneath them. Ronan wonders how many stories he would have to ascend before car horns became inaudible, or an unstartling background noise at least. “And I am willing to give you anything needed to protect it, as long as you stick to our deal.”

Then, Ronan meets his eye for the first time since entering the spacious office.

“I have no interest in being a celebrity,” he starts, explaining his perspective on the business for what feels like the millionth time, “I’m a producer. I make music. That’s all I care about.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that the public is interested in you. They want to know who _Greywaren_ is,” Declan reminds him, and Ronan wants nothing more than to reach across the desk and punch the smugness out of him. They are both perfectly aware that tabloids have spent years trying to uncover the mystery of the famous producer who calls themselves Greywaren, and have come dangerously close to the truth before. Last year, paparazzi captured Ronan leaving a restaurant in Los Angeles in tow of an extremely high-profile singer whose latest album his alias was rumored to be working on. A celebrity gossip blog picked up on the strange constellation and Ronan made Declan’s lawyers forcibly delete the post connecting ‘Niall Lynch’s second son’ with the name Greywaren.

“My true identity doesn’t concern anyone. My music is all people should be concerned about.”

“Yes, well. I am willing to put up with your little hiding game, given that you stick to your end of our deal.”

Ronan sighs, but braces himself for the assignment his brother is about to bestow on him. He waits for the big announcement, but instead Declan merely pushes a button on the electronic control panel on his desk and commands, “Tessa, could you send in Mr Gansey now please,” in his most businessman-esque tone. A moment later, the door opens, and a young man with slicked-back hair and a briefcase under his arm enters. Ronan should probably recognize him from some industry party, the guy looks like he would fit right in with the sleazy music manager crowd.

“Good morning, Mr Gansey,” Declan says, standing up to greet the man and gesturing for him to take a seat next to Ronan.

“Good morning to you too, Mr Lynch,” the newcomer answers, and turns to Ronan before making any move to sit down.

“You must be Greywaren,” he says, extending a hand.

Ronan is too stunned to speak. Didn’t Declan just say he would keep his identity protected?

“Relax, Ronan. This is Richard Gansey, Helen Gansey’s manager. He is here to talk about your new assignment.”

“The assignment is Helen Gansey?”

“Yes. You see, Helen loves what you do and since she has decided to take her next album more down the EDM route, she has requested you specifically as her producer.”

Ronan contemplates the prospect of working with Helen Gansey. The singer is one of the most successful in the business, having started her career at only eighteen years old. Now, she is in her late twenties and looking to shake up her style, if what Declan and her manager say is true. And she wants to work with Greywaren.

“Alright,” he says, finally. From the corner of his eye, he can see the man introduced to him as Richard Gansey break out into a beaming smile.

“Oh, Helen will be absolutely delighted!” he says, and turns to shake Ronan’s hand with enthusiastic force.

“She’s one of the few people in this business that I actually respect,” Ronan adds as he squeezes Mr. Gansey’s hand, throwing him a meaningful look. A warning. _Don’t do anything that would make me lose that respect._ Ronan knows people like Richard Gansey all too well. They are ferocious and calculating, even if their outer appearance is no clue to their work ethics. What makes it worse in this case, Ronan supposes, is that Richard and Helen are family. A glance over at Declan reveals a very pleased expression on his brother’s face that Ronan would love to wipe off with a well-placed blow to the jaw.

“Grand,” Declan says and Ronan scowls. A successful deal called for the use of their father’s favourite expression. _The luck of the Irish_ , Ronan remembers Niall telling him after a lucrative contract had been signed, _strikes again._ The memory of his father stings, but Ronan is adamant not to leave the wound exposed for very long. At Cabeswater HQ, Niall’s personal emporium, it is particularly difficult to forget, with every corner turned revealing yet another souvenir from the past. Whether it is the same vending machine on the 15th floor from which eight-year-old Ronan would purchase Snickers bars and orange sodas or a now greying Dr Nielsen from the legal department offering him the same sympathetic smile she wore all those years ago, Ronan finds himself struggling to repress the painful reminders of a childhood long lost.

“It was good to see you, Richard,” Declan says and stands to shake hands with the manager.

“Just call me Gansey,” his counterpart replies, “Likewise, it was great to see you, Declan. What a successful meeting indeed!”

The pleasantries make Ronan want to gag. He shoots Declan a glaring look and to his surprise, his brother manages to arrange time and date for his meeting with Helen rather quickly. With another hand shake, Gansey exits the office, leaving Ronan alone with his brother once more.

“I’m sorry I have to be so strict with you,” Declan admits, breaking the moment of silence after Gansey’s departure. He promptly ignores Ronan’s snort and continues, “When dad left me in change of the company, he wanted me to take care of you.”

“Don’t bring him into this,” Ronan snaps.

“What was I supposed to do? Leave you to drink yourself into oblivion every night?”

Rationally, Ronan can’t argue with this, he knows he fucked up big time. He tries anyway.

“I’m an adult, I can take care of myself.”

By now, Declan is gesturing liberally, pointing a finger at Ronan in a repeated stabbing motion, “Evidence suggests you _can’t_.”

 “Fuck you,” Ronan counters, silently wishing he could have come up with a better, more eloquently crafted insult.

“I really am sorry, Ronan, but I can’t let you give up on yourself like that. This can’t happen again, understood? One more slip-up and you’re out.”

And there it is, the ultimate threat. Ronan is aware that Declan isn’t just referring to his contract with Cabeswater Records. _One more slip-up and no more seeing mom, no more Matthew, and no more Barns._

“Right,” Ronan says, curtly, and stands to leave.

“See that you don’t miss your meeting with Helen next week,” Declan says, indicating the end of their argument. Ronan watches him recline in his chair, noting that the look on his brother’s face stands testament to concern rather than the smug complacency he was expecting to see.

“I won’t,” Ronan says.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Noah and Helen.
> 
> Oh, and Adam.
> 
> Warnings: mentions of canon character death, poor descriptions of music and music production, awkwardness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for Chapter 2:  
> ∗ Unsteady / X Ambassadors  
> ∗ I Know A Place / MUNA

On the cab ride back to his apartment, Ronan’s phone beeps once, twice. He is able to ignore it even when it starts ringing, until the driver glances at him through the rear-view mirror and asks, “You gonna take that, sir?”

“Wasn’t planning to,” Ronan answers, but pulls his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans regardless. The display reads Noah, and deep-down Ronan is relieved he won’t have to make an effort to break the radio silence himself.

“Hey,” he greets his best friend.

“Ronan! Hey, I wasn’t expecting you to pick up.”

Noah is audibly surprised and Ronan can’t really fault him for it.

“How are you doing?” Noah inquires before he can reply, or perhaps before he has a chance to decide that answering the call was a bad idea and hang up.

“Fine,” Ronan answers. And he really is. Even if he weren’t fine, there is little he could do to change the situation he has found himself in. If Noah wants to poke him for more information on his emotional wellbeing, he seems to have decided against it.

“Back at work already?”

“Yep.”

“Nice! What are you making?”

“I can’t talk about it right now, I’m in a cab.”

“Okay, but text me later! Listen, I’m in New York next week, so…” Noah pauses for a moment. Ronan’s cab pulls up in front of his apartment building. “Can we hang out then?” Noah asks, finally. A wave of relief washes over Ronan, maybe things would go back to normal after all.

“Yeah, that’d be cool,” he says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He really missed Noah. The cab driver accepts his cash and Ronan climbs out of the car, heading into the building.

“I gotta go, Noah,” he says as he crosses the lobby to the elevator. The porter greets him jovially. Ronan watches the numbers above the elevator doors change as it descends.

“I’ll text you later,” Ronan says and after a moment adds, “I can’t wait to see you, man.”

 

* * *

 

The following Wednesday, Noah arrives from LA with tan lines Ronan can’t quite wrap his head around and about twenty pounds of excess baggage. When Ronan frowns at his luggage, “Presents!” suffices as an explanation. It turns out Noah really has come bearing gifts – once he is settled into Ronan’s guest bedroom, he pulls out a very large plush animal shaped like a boa constrictor, claiming it reminded him of Ronan, as well as an assortment of fancy, expensive looking chocolates and other snacks. He knows better than to question Noah’s gift-giving and settles down on the sofa with a packet of particularly disgusting looking kale chips.

“Is this why people in California are so in shape? Because the food there is so gross?” Ronan asks after the first taste test.

“I didn’t think you’d go straight for the healthiest option,” Noah laughs and hands Ronan a box of pralines instead, “Try these, they’re my favourite.”

Having Noah near him causes Ronan’s mood to improve almost instantly. Whilst he didn’t allow himself to think about how lonely he felt during the days that passed since the meeting with Declan, his best friend’s bubbly presence in his otherwise lonely apartment is a true blessing. Noah even manages to persuade him to go out for dinner, a well-rounded combination of “Come on, we need to celebrate us being back together!” and “My treat” doing the trick.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Ronan confesses halfway through his lasagna. Noah stares at him for a fraction of a second and Ronan half expects him to ask if he’s full already.

“Of course you can!” Noah attempts to reassures him, “You’re an amazing producer, everyone wants to work with you. _Helen Gansey_ asked for you personally.”

“No, I mean…,” Ronan starts but realises he cannot precisely pin down the emotions he is trying to express. He’s never been sure of his feelings, always thinking of them as a million puzzle pieces impossible to arrange in a way that would make sense to him. Looking up from his plate, he sees Noah staring at him intently. He tries again, “I don’t think I have any inspiration left in me.”

At that, Noah sets down his knife and fork, the pasta dish in front of him forgotten, and reaches across the table to gingerly place a comforting hand on Ronan’s forearm.

“Ronan, you’ve been through so much,” he starts, and it’s true. Ronan thinks of the rehab clinic and the mess of the first week, the withdrawal, the anxiety and the heavy emotional lifting in the weeks following.

“Take your pain and turn it into something beautiful, I know you can. You’ve always done it.”

Ronan considers this for a moment. Six months ago he would have resented Noah for dishing out nothing but cold hard truths. Six months ago, Ronan would have never even mentioned his worries. But his friend is right, and Ronan doesn’t want to lie to himself any longer. The hardships of his youth, the death of his father, his mother’s illness, those were all things that once inspired him to create music. Fifteen year old Ronan mixed his first track a month after Niall’s death, an angry, fast-paced beat and a bass drop that was breathtaking in every sense of the word serving as a gateway drug to this world of wonder.

“It’s been so long since I was in the studio…,” Ronan trails off. He knows his point is moot.

“So, listen to some demos. Maybe one of those will inspire you.”

 

* * *

  

The next morning, Helen arrives at Ronan’s accompanied two body guards. Noah is the first to greet her, rushing to the elevator as soon as he hears the soft _ding_ announcing her arrival. When Ronan told him about this new job Noah was ecstatic and informed him that Helen was a good friend of his, but he couldn’t really believe it until he saw them engulfed in a tight hug. Ronan himself is perplexed by her presence when he knows he shouldn’t be, but there is something about meeting someone this famous in person that still makes him feel funny, even after more than a decade in the business. When Helen directs her attention to Ronan, he feels a strange surge of _starstruck_ in his stomach.

“You must be Ronan!” she says, all smiles and solid handshake, “It’s great to finally meet you! I’m a big fan of your work.”

“Likewise,” Ronan says before he realises that it makes him sound like his brother, “I’m a big fan of yours, too.”

Briefly, he wonders whether she can feel the clamminess of his hand. If she does, she doesn’t let it phase her.

“Thank you for offering to do this in your home studio,” Helen continues.

When Ronan received the details on their first session, he asked Gansey if it was possible to hold it in his apartment.

“I work better from here,” Ronan tells her and points to a door at the end of his long hallway. Helen nods, still smiling, then mutters something to the body guards and the men leave silently.

“Well, since you don’t really need me for this part,” Noah says, “How about I go and get us all some coffee?”

Helen is enthused by the offer, and Ronan agrees that caffeine could push them to greater musical lengths. He leads the singer to his home studio, a room he hasn’t used in a long while. The equipment is up and running, however. Ronan was unable to resist the urge to set up all the instruments and electronics earlier that day. When they enter, he relishes at the sight of a wall line with a variety of keyboards and synthesizers, the window front adorned by an intricate system of computers, gadgets, and microphones. He sees even Helen Gansey, who must have seen the inner workings of many, many studios over her years active in the business, marvel at his collection of creative tools.

“No wonder your music is so good, you must be super inspired with this view, looking out at the city,” Helen says when they take a seat by the main desk. She pulls a USB stick out of her large, assumedly ridiculously pricy, handbag and hands it over.

Ronan accepts the small drive and reaches to plug it into the back of his computer, “Yeah, I love this studio. I can’t work where I don’t feel one hundred per cent at ease,” he confesses, cringing when he misses the USB port and the metal of the head scratches against the aluminium casing.

“Makes sense,” Helen says, watching for the external device icon appear on the screen. When it does, she sits back in her chair and crosses her arms. Ronan is still very aware of the fact that a global superstar is sitting next to him, but he doesn’t feel as uncomfortable as he expected. Helen is easy to be himself around, he notes. There is something about her demeanour that made him confess about the comfort his home studio brings him, an admission Ronan surprised even himself with. He suspects they will get along well.

They listen to a handful of tracks, all handpicked by Helen herself to give Ronan an idea of where she wants her new sound to go. The fourth track is a song pitched specifically to Helen, as she explains whilst a simple piano melody introduces the piece.

“This is my favourite,” Helen remarks.

When Ronan hears the first lyric, he understands why. The voice on the track is gentle, vocalising strands of what he can only classify as carefully crafted poetry, carried in a silvery tune. As the first verse fades into the pre-chorus, Ronan’s gaze is unfocused, albeit directed at the mid-morning skyline beyond the window glass. The melody flows evenly on the piano and Ronan can occasionally hear the metronome ticking in the background. There is a change in key after the second chorus and the bridge hits with a harsher tone of voice, lyrics pushed through gritted teeth in a transition from melancholy to astringent, like words spat in a heated argument conveying a message Ronan can only decipher as _how can I get through to you, when will you understand, please hear me, I’m begging you to at least try_.

When the song finishes, a trickle of notes on the songwriter’s piano fading into silence, Ronan stays still but lets his eyes focus, landing his gaze on a particularly prominent skyscraper. Beside him, Helen sighs. A long moment passes before he dares to speak. Then, Ronan turns his attention from the towering construction to look at Helen.

“This is brilliant,” he says. A smile forms on Helen’s lips but her eyes remain glazed as she stares blankly at the computer screen.

“I know,” she says.

“Who wrote it?”

The song’s bridge echoes, multiplies, harmonizes in Ronan’s head. The craving and desperation in the singer’s voice stirred something deep inside of him.

“It’s a bit of a funny story, actually,” Helen starts. Finally, she averts her eyes from the open flash drive folder on Ronan’s studio desktop and looks at him to explain, “My brother Richard, who you’ve met I’m sure, visited this open mic night at a café in Brooklyn a couple of months ago, and there was this guy who played a twenty-minute set all by himself, just him on a piano.”

Ronan tries to envision the person singing on the track they just listened to, but to no avail. In his inner eye, the piano man stays hidden in the shadows, the spotlight harsh on his fingers as they skip over the keys.

“His name is Adam Parrish, and Richard, who has a knack for finding new talent, introduced him to the people at Cabeswater, and got him a songwriting contract. This was the first demo he pitched, and my brother dearest talked him into letting me, of all people, experiment with it.”

“You of all people?” Ronan laughs. Of all possible artists, having Helen Gansey interpret your song doesn’t seem like such a bad deal, not to mention the royalties.

“Those are my words, not his,” Helen assures him, but before Ronan can dig deeper into the meaning of her words, she continues, “So, do you think we can work on this song?”

 

* * *

  

They record the song that same day. Noah returns from his coffee run about ten minutes into the instrumental arrangement and when they play him the demo track, he reacts by laying a hand on his chest, over his heart, and sighing contently. “Great choice,” he says. Then, Helen tells him the songwriter’s story and Noah’s eyes light up.

“Oh, we have to talk to him, get him to come over and pitch in” he says, placing his disposable coffee cup atop the upright piano next to Ronan’s studio desk. Helen releases a noise Ronan can only describe as excited squealing and lifts her extra-foam-no-sugar almond milk latte as if to cheers to the brilliant idea.

“Yes! Ronan, you have to call him,” she orders and, when she sees the irritated look on Ronan’s face, adds, “Well, I can’t just call anyone from my private phone, what if my number leaks?”

Ronan merely nods and accepts his fate whilst Helen digs through her handbag to retrieve a stash of paperwork. He cringes at the thought of calling someone out of the blue, he thinks they could at least e-mail the guy first, but Helen is persistent and he doubts he would have a chance against her and Noah anyways.

As if he read his thoughts, Noah chirps in.

“I can call him,” he says and reaches for the documents in Helen’s hand.

A minute later, they have Adam Parrish on the phone.

“Hi, this is Noah Czerny, I’m calling on behalf of Helen Gansey,” Noah says and earns himself a glare from the pop star, “We’re currently working on the song you pitched to her and Helen was wondering if you would like to join our studio session.”

Helen is gesturing wildly at him and Ronan can’t suppress a laugh. He can’t hear the other end of the conversation, but Noah is nodding and smiling as the person speaks.

“Okay, cool!” he says, “I’ll forward you the address and tell the porter we’re expecting you, he’ll show you up.”

When Noah hangs up, Helen looks as if she has an intense scolding in store for him but, much to Ronan’s surprise, she remains quiet. The three of them continue to work on the arrangement of the song, experimenting with different instruments, filters, and synthesizer sounds. Ronan experiments with an old Linn drum as well as more modern equipment, grumbling in annoyance when Noah can’t keep his fingers off the modulators. Helen asks to have a go on the drum machines, seemingly delighted by the nuanced differences in sound.

The doorbell rings a little while later whilst Ronan is adjusting the guitar riff he just had Helen record. At the intercom panel by the elevator, Ronan presses a button to answer the buzzing. The porter announces that, “A Mr. Adam Parrish is here to see you, sir” and a short while later, the elevator doors open to reveal a young man, probably about Ronan’s age, clinging onto the strap of a messenger bag.

“Hi,” Ronan croaks in surprise, taken slightly aback by the visitor’s appearance. He expected a lot of things, built up an image of the songwriter in his head, but the figure in front of him meets none of those expectations. First of all, the guy is tall. Ronan has maybe an inch or two on him, but he is _tall_ nevertheless. Noah’s apex barely reaches the stubble on his chin, but this guy towers almost as high as Ronan, an observation he cannot seem to shake off even when his visitor steps out of the elevator and his hand breaches part of the distance between them, offering a greeting.

“Oh, hello. I’m Adam,” he says, and it takes Ronan a little more than what he thinks is a socially acceptable reaction time to such an utterance. Eventually, he does reach out to shake his hand. Down the hall, he can hear Helen’s piercing laugh.

“Ronan Lynch, I’m the producer,” Ronan introduces himself, unsure whether to mention his alias.

“Thanks for inviting me over,” Adam continues. If he recognises Ronan’s name, he doesn’t allow himself to show any reaction. The elevator doors close behind him and for a moment Ronan watches the number count atop the door frame descend before landing his eyes back on the newcomer.

“No worries, we’re all very excited to have you here,” Ronan reassures him and gestures towards the noises coming from his studio, “Come on, meet the gang.”

Helen and Noah are both all over Adam once he sets foot in the studio, asking about his life, his song writing, where he grew up. Ronan learns the answers to these questions to be Brooklyn-based musician, excited yet a little anxious about his new job, and Virginia raised but fled to New York for college.

“That’s so funny,” Noah says, “Ronan grew up on a farm in Virginia.”

Adam raises one blonde brow at this. Ronan wants to punch Noah for this unsolicited revelation, but refrains from violence in favour of keeping the conversation pleasant and maybe, possibly, _hopefully_ making a good first impression.

“Really?” Adam asks, establishing eye contact and smiling bemusedly at him. Ronan feels his pulse quickening and scratches over the back of his buzzed head to distract and ground himself.

After Niall’s death, the centre of the Lynch brothers’ world shifted a little over three hundred miles north, away from the lush green of rolling hills, rich pastures, away from a home built on magic, on love and family. Instead, they moved to a maze of asphalt and concrete, each face as insincere as the next. Ronan doesn’t think this classifies as information to be dished out at first meetings, however.

“Yeah, but I moved to New York when I was fifteen,” he explains instead, holding Adam’s gaze.

Adam hums in acknowledgement, letting his eyes shift away, and Ronan breathes in relief.

“You wanna hear what we have so far?” Helen asks, breaking the awkward tension by directing the at Adam. Ronan is eternally thankful for her graceful handling of the situation. Adam agrees, and Ronan sinks down on one of the desk chairs, diverting his attention to the production software, and presses play.

The beat kicks in first, followed by an array of instrumentals and synthesized sounds. So far, the track is not very long or fleshed out, and Ronan pauses after a good thirty seconds to turn and wait for a reaction.

“Wow,” Adam says, “That sounds really nice already.”

Ronan can’t help himself, he flashes a sharp grin at the songwriter, “Wait until we add vocals.”

Helen places a hand on Adam’s upper arm, a gesture that should irritate Ronan a lot less than it does. He tries his best to elude this surge of feelings.

“I’m so glad you like it!”

“I really do,” Adam says, “You can hear the anxiety coming through, and the beat sort of underlines that, chases it somehow. Like, it’s a sad, almost distraught melody but it sounds like a party at the same time.”

Ronan barks a laugh. Brilliant. This guy is simply brilliant.

“I have a feeling you’re gonna make a great addition to this team.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofreading who?
> 
> Let it be known that I know nothing about making music and am going off knowledge taken out of haphazard google searches and a bunch of 'the making of a song' youtube videos (shout out to jack antonoff for teaching me what a Linn drum is).
> 
> Chapter 3 will be juicier, I promise. Up next: Adam POV, Blue, Orla, and more Pynch being slightly awkward.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam gets invited to a studio session with Helen Gansey and her team.
> 
> (Or: The first chapter from Adam's POV. Enter Blue and Orla. Plus: more Helen and Noah being cuties, and more Ronan being slightly awkward.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had SO much fun writing this chapter. Adam's POV is something I haven't really attempted before but I'm happy with how it turned out. It's also a bit longer than usual, I hope that's okay with you all. ;)
> 
> I made a playlist for this fic! I will update it every time I post a new chapter. The matching songs will be listed at the beginning of each new chapter, as well (see chapter notes in the previous chapters as well). Here are some links:
> 
>  **[apple music playlist](https://itunes.apple.com/at/playlist/move-to-me-like-im-a-motown-beat/pl.u-leylMKefxLv7oZ)/ [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/julia022/playlist/1mPCsCDRUyFI2khYacdLe8) ** → if you want you can add those to your library and listen to the update every time i post a new chapter.
> 
> Songs for Chapter 3:  
> ∗ Shadow / Bleachers  
> ∗ Subtle Thing / Marian Hill

Blue is going to drive him insane, of that Adam is sure. It’s Thursday just after 11am and the café is packed full of tired faces, sitting by themselves staring intently onto computer screens or chatting idly to their companions. Adam himself is sat at the bar, notebook spread in front of him and one hand curled tightly around a cup of tepid Americano. He’s just come in from an early morning lecture and his brain is feeling absolutely fried from thinking about applied mathematics whilst running on three hours of sleep and a questionable amount of caffeine. His best friend, Blue, is behind the counter slicing what looks to be bundt cake shaped banana bread and pestering him about the work in front of him.

“Come on, Adam, tell me!” she tries yet again, desperate to find out details on his new job.

For the past fifteen minutes, from the moment on when Adam opened his notebook, she’s been trying to coax an answer out of him.

“I’m literally legally obliged to keep my mouth shut,” Adam explains. He has lost count on how many times he has had to hope that this answer would satisfy Blue.

It still doesn’t.

“That just means that you’re working for someone REALLY famous,” Blue reasons. She’s not wrong. He did just pitch a song to one of the biggest globally successful singers of their time.

“Is it Lady Gaga?” 

“No.”

“Rihanna?”

“No.”

Blue stops her slicing for dramatic effect and points the tip of her bread knife at him, gasping in fake shock, “It’s Beyoncé, isn’t it?”

“These artists aren’t even signed to the same label as me.”

“They could be. How do I know you’re not lying,” she wonders.

“I’d literally get fired if I told you. I’d lose my apartment and I’d have to crash on your couch again,” Adam says and takes a sip of his almost cold coffee.

“Fair enough,” Blue recognises, but Adam is still wary of her interest in his shiny new career. He can’t blame her; this business is dazzlingly fascinating and they are both on the very bottom of the ladder of what these people earn millions of dollars doing. One hundred and fifty dollars in voluntary donations, Adam recalls, were split between the performers on the last open mic night at Sargent’s Café, thirty each for Adam himself, a ridiculously funny slam poet, a cellist and dancer duo, Blue, and a middle-aged rapper from Queens.

The meagre earnings of a career as an independent musician, on top of student loans and not wanting to starve, led to Adam spending a full month on Blue’s trusty old two-seater after the lease on his last place ran out and he was unable to afford rent for a new home. It turned out to be okay, he took over some of Blue’s shifts in return, giving her precious time to work on her music. On the twenty-seventh day without four walls to call his own, a slick looking guy approached him after one of his sets at the café’s and offered him an exclusive songwriting deal for Cabeswater Records, the biggest music label on the East Coast. Adam didn’t think that this was the sort of thing that happened off the silver screen; however, he didn’t really feel like complaining either when the guy, who had introduced himself as Gansey, roped him into a meeting room with the head of the label himself, legendary music mogul Niall Lynch’s son, to sign a 12-song writing contract. Declan Lynch complimented his skills, shook his hand to seal the deal and vanished through the polished glass doors after a mere ten minutes.

Up to that point of the story, Blue is privy to all the details: the fact that Gansey had followed him ‘backstage’, to a small room where the café staff usually spent their breaks, and had asked for his contact information, Lynch’s smug handsomeness and impressively firm handshake, and that Adam was to deliver a total of 12 full songs credited to his name within a span of six months. To whom he pitched his first song, however, is a secret he is required to keep entirely to himself.

From behind the beaded curtain separating the coffee shop’s small kitchen from the counter area, Orla appears with a tray of fresh cinnamon rolls.

“Oh, hi, Adam! Back from campus already?” she asks with a tone of surprise. It is unusual for Adam to drop by before late afternoon. Blue opens the glass lid on the three-tiered cake stand for her to start transferring the baked goods.

“My afternoon class got cancelled so I decided to skip the library and come back right away,” Adam explains.

“Adam Parrish skipping the opportunity to be a nerd? Fame changed you, man,” Orla says, laughing, and Adam can’t help but grin.

Whatever sarcastic comment Blue is about to unload on him dies in her throat when Adam’s phone buzzes loudly in its place on the counter. The number on the caller ID is unfamiliar to him but he suspects that it has to do with his new job.

“Hi, this is Noah Czerny, I’m calling on behalf of Helen Gansey,” the person on the line introduces themselves when Adam picks up the call. Anxiety bubbles in his stomach when he hears the name Helen Gansey.

“Oh, um. Hello.”

“We’re currently working on the song you pitched to her and Helen was wondering if you would like to join our studio session.”

Adam’s brain is used to processing information quickly and efficiently, it rarely stumbles on one particular input, but this news makes his thoughts stutter to a halt. Pitching a song to Helen is one thing; that way she was still completely unreachable. Working on the song with her in person drastically eradicates the distance between him as a songwriter and her as the recording artist.

When he looks up, he sees Blue and Orla are staring at him from across the counter. Blue questioningly lifts one dark brow and Adam’s thoughts snap back to the phone call.

“Yeah. I mean, yes, that would be an honour,” he says after an awkward moment of silence, “Should I meet you now? I do have the afternoon free.”

And he really does, but, truth be told, he would clear his schedule even if he didn’t. There is no way he will deliberately sabotage his chances of making a good first impression on Helen Gansey and her team.

The person on the other end of the call seems ecstatic about this answer, enthusiasm dripping from their voice. They forward him a Manhattan address and suddenly Adam is agonisingly aware of the fact that he is about to meet a global superstar without having made any sort of preparation or done any research. It is so out of character for him that he almost starts feeling queasy. Adam Parrish doesn’t do important things on a whim. He is not spontaneous. He carefully analyses the situation, plans his next steps, follows the instructions he sets himself and sticks to them no matter what. Blue once remarked that there was a reason people called it ‘adamant’ rather than ‘orlamant’, referring to her cousin’s very much relaxed attitude in comparison to his.

“What was that about?” Orla asks him when he finally puts his phone away. Blue has rushed off to take an order from a table of new customers and is definitely out of earshot, so Adam decides to spill a fraction of his secret.

“I just got invited to a recording session,” he admits, and lifts his cup to drain it from the last sip of coffee.

“Oh really?”

Adam hums in confirmation.

“And why do you not want Blue to know about that?”

He silently curses Orla’s ability to read him like an open book. The truth is an unpleasant thing to acknowledge, but Adam knows that Orla will find out anyhow, or at the very least take a very accurate guess, as to why he is reluctant to tell Blue about everything.

“I don’t want her to feel like I’m abandoning her,” he tells Orla. The look on her face changes from suspicious to understanding.

“Because music is your joint thing and you’re afraid that she will think that you’re moving on to greater things and leaving her behind,” she deduces correctly.

Adam fiddles with the elastic band holding the bounds of his notebook together and wonders if he looks as uncomfortable as he feels in that moment. Apparently, the answer to that is yes, because Orla tilts her head slightly to the side, brows knit, and looks at him through narrowed eyes as if to say _Honey, I see right through you_. However, when she speaks next, she says nothing of the sort.

“Who are you working with anyway?” she asks, back to being completely casual.

Adam contemplates for a moment. He knows Orla can and will keep any secret for him, but this one might just be too sensational to hold back.

He decides to risk it, anyway. In an attempt to be as discreet as possible, he reaches for his phone and pulls up Helen Gansey’s latest album in his music library and turns the screen to show Orla.

“No fucking way,” she says, a mix of shock and disbelief seeping through her words.

“Yep. I’m off to meet her later,” he says and Orla shoots him a warning look.

“Meet who?” Blue’s voice sounds from behind him and Adam curses under his breath, “Do you have a date?”

Well.

“Sort of,” he answers. And he’s not technically lying.

“Who’s the lucky lady?” Blue asks as she starts pushing buttons on the espresso machine, preparing the order she just took.

“Well, it’s kind of a group thing. Just a bunch of people hanging out, working on a project,” he says. Still, not a lie.

“Oh, boring engineering shit? Bless your nerdy heart, I hope you get some,” Blue quips, and annoyance settles heavily on Adam’s shoulders. Before he has a chance to retaliate, however, his phone goes off once again.

The guy who called him earlier, Noah Czerny, has texted him: _like I said earlier, I told the porter we’re expecting you so just tell him you’re there to see ronan lynch and he’ll show you up to the apartment :))_

“I gotta go,” Adam says then, types out a quick _thanks, see you later_! and shoves his notebook and phone into the main compartment of his well-used messenger bag, “I don’t wanna be late.”

“Go get ‘em, tiger!” Orla says at the same time as Blue says, “Bye!”

Blue is placing drinks on a tray and not really paying him much attention, so he uses the opportunity to slip away quietly. If he hurries, he can make the 11:36 bus to Court Square and take the subway to Manhattan from there.

* * *

 

During his public transport journey, the uneasy weight in Adam’s stomach grows with every minute passing. He is about to meet Helen Gansey, and he’s about to work with her in a real music studio. The only experience under Adam’s belt that ever came even remotely close to this was recording a cover of a Beatles track with a proper YouTube musician. Although Sargent’s Café regularly posts videos of performances held there, Adam generally sticks to performing for live audiences and therefore has very limited know-how and practice in studio production. _You’re very experienced in worrying, though,_ Adam thinks once he’s finally hopped off the train at Lexington Avenue.

The address Noah sent him is four blocks north from the metro station and Adam hopes that the walk will somehow help him shake off his anxieties. When he spots the sleek and shiny building towering above him, however, he throws all hopes of remaining calm to the wind. _You don’t belong in this world. Someone like you will never fit in here_. Writing and sending demos to artists is one thing, actually meeting and working with them is an entirely different story.

When he enters the lobby, the porter spots him immediately. Adam is unsure whether he should be embarrassed for looking so out of place, like entering an expensive clothing store when you’re wearing old jeans and a washed-out sweatshirt.

“Mr. Parrish?” the porter asks and Adam nods. In that moment, he is painfully aware of looking like a deer caught in the headlights of a very fancy car.

The uniformed man behind the desk lifts a phone to his ear.

“A Mr. Adam Parrish is here to see you, sir,” the porter drones monotonously into the receiver. Then, he hangs up and gestures across the room, “Elevator C will take you up, thirty-third floor.”

The ride up is quicker than Adam would have imagined an elevator ride to the thirty third floor would take. He wonders if these people have any house keys at all, if they use magnetic cards to access their apartments, or if the porter just unlocks their doors from the central computer system. For a brief moment, he wonders what happens if that system crashes, but then the elevator rides smoothly to a halt and the doors open to reveal a very spacious entryway and a very tall man standing in it, obviously waiting for him. Adam notes that the guy is intimidatingly large and tall, and anxiety flares up in his stomach once more with the surge of his flight reaction kicking in.

“Hi,” the man says, voice slightly raspy, as his eyes roam Adam’s appearance, and there is something decidedly familiar about his features that Adam just can’t place. _Someone like you will never fit in here._ Adam pushes the thought back into the very deep corners of his mind and puts on a brave face. He can do this.

Adam steps into the entrance hall and offers a hand in greeting, “Oh, hello. I’m Adam.”

For a short moment, there is only silence and the man’s icy eyes surveying him, analysing him, categorising him. Adam resists the urge to run a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he has become hyperaware of ever since Blue pointed it out to him.

Finally, the silence is broken, “Ronan Lynch, I’m the producer,” the man introduces himself, and Adam suddenly recognises the cool blue of his eyes and the prominent, aquiline shape of his nose as the record label’s CEO’s. Didn’t Niall Lynch have multiple children?

Adam has no time to ponder on this subject, however. He thanks Ronan for inviting him over, and soon enough he finds himself in the producer’s home studio being gushed over by global superstar Helen Gansey.

“Oh my god, your song is so gorgeous, I’m so glad you’re letting me work on it,” Helen says, clutching his forearm in her hands. Adam feels a blush creeping up the back of his neck at the compliment.

“Thanks, um,” he says, “It’s an honour to have you work on my song.”

The conversation drifts away from the matter at hand, music, and soon Helen and Noah are questioning him on his personal life. Adam notes that Ronan is alarmingly quiet throughout the conversation, leaning on the large desk by the window with his arms crossed and observing the situation.

“I moved here for college eight years ago,” Adam confesses, “I’m originally from Virginia.”

“That’s so funny, Ronan grew up on a farm in Virginia,” Noah informs him and Adam doesn’t fail to notice the deadly glare Ronan shoots him.

“Really?”

Somehow, Adam can’t imagine this guy living on a farm. And if he really is one of the notorious Lynch brothers, wouldn’t he have had a more luxurious upbringing?

“Yeah, but I moved to New York when I was fifteen,” Ronan says.

Helen then proposes that he listen to what they have worked on so far, and Adam agrees. Ronan uncrosses his arms and pushes himself off the desk just to sit down on the chair in front of the computer to fiddle with the settings on the music software.

When the song starts playing, Adam has a hard time recognising the melodic pattern at first, but after a couple of seconds he recognises the tempo and when he imagines the lyrics accompanying the instrumentals, he definitely sees where the team is going with the song. The beat is crisp and reminds Adam of the 80s songs usually playing at one of his favourite bars back in Brooklyn, the electric guitar on the track is subtle but manages to move something in Adam that spurs on the tight pull of anxiety on his insides in the most positive of ways. The smoothness of what sounds like synthesised strings peaks Adam’s interest.

“Wow, that sounds really nice already,” Adam says, and he means it. It’s not what he’s used to, sticking mostly to his keyboard and guitar, but it’s good and he can see that the production process is extremely intricate and nuanced.

Ronan seems to be pleased with this answer, because he tells him to, “Wait until we add vocals,” and smiles toothily at him. Adam can’t help but mirror his expression, although his smile is much more careful. Uneasiness is still seething inside him, but there is something warming about the sharpness of the producer’s grin.

When Adam gives a more detailed opinion, Ronan’s laugh is loud and jovial, “I have a feeling you’re gonna make a great addition to this team,” he says and crosses his arms once again.

Noah seems to agree, “Yes! I knew it was a good idea to hit you up.”

“Definitely,” Helen chirps in, “Speaking of your contribution, before you arrived we were working on the instrumentals, but it feels like there’s something missing.”

“Like what?” Adam asks, unsure of where this is going. He has no experience with fancy studio equipment.

“Well, we have the beat and the basic guitar chords, the synth strings are a nice touch that we think we want to keep quiet in the background,” Ronan explains, and turns to the computer screen to pull and arrange some recordings. He plays a short clip, maybe ten seconds of steady beat, guitar strumming and strings, then pauses again.

“That’s the verse. That’s where we want Helen’s voice to really come through, so the arrangement pulls back from the intro you heard earlier, which is much more intense.”

The way Ronan talks about music, Adam realises, is the same attitude Adam has when writing lyrics. Timing, placement, careful consideration. Adam can’t help but smile at this realisation. Ronan pauses and looks over his shoulder at Adam, assumedly to make sure he is still listening.

“There’s a build up in the pre-chorus where the beat quickens, and all that kind of explodes in the chorus. After that, we have a beat drop and probably like a mirroring of the backing vocals throughout the chorus, and we’re gonna add some more electronica for that part as well,” Ronan continues. Noah is spinning on a piano stool, but Helen is bent over the desktop with her head propped up on her elbow, listening intently.

“But we definitely need some help with the chorus, you know, after the explosion part,” Ronan says, the movements of his hands mimicking an explosion, then what Adam assumes are supposed to be shock waves. The gesture is strangely endearing.

* * *

 

They spend the afternoon tinkling experimental chords and melodies on a variety of synthesizers and keyboards, Helen sitting on the small bench of the upright piano next to Adam as they figure out the chorus instrumental. At one point, Adam notes how strange it is that working with Helen doesn’t feel strange at all. In fact, it is quite pleasant. One of the reasons why he loves working with Blue is that they can bounce ideas off each other and push each other to be more creative.

Helen herself is an inspiring person, as he finds out over lunch in Ronan’s kitchen. They order from a Japanese restaurant, a luxury Adam rarely grants himself but refrains from protesting as to not seem stingy, and talk about how they got into making music. Noah talks about studying music and audio engineering in San Francisco and harbouring an interest in the science behind it all ever since he was a young teen.

As it turns out, Helen was offered a record deal by Niall Lynch himself when she was just eighteen years old. This revelation made Ronan choke on a mouthful of ramen and confirmed Adam’s suspicions about Ronan’s family background.

“That’s funny because I started mixing tracks like ten years ago after my dad died,” Ronan then confesses, still coughing a couple of times whilst speaking. Adam suspects that this was supposed to make Helen feel guilty, or one-upped, but she remained solemn and patted his back in support, either because of his cough, to comfort him, or maybe both.

Noah is the one to direct the question at Adam, and he feels slightly uncomfortable with three pairs of undoubtedly more experienced eyes on him, but elaborates anyway.

“I started playing piano for my high school’s choir and drama club because I needed another extracurricular for my college application,” he starts, “And when I came here, I didn’t play for a year or so but started journaling, I guess, which kind of evolved into verse form. I was actually inspired to start writing and playing my own songs because my friend Blue started a band and she forced me to join.”

Noah and Helen laugh at that, Ronan merely raises an eyebrow.

“Forced you?” he asks, looking back down at his bowl of ramen. Adam watches him pierce half a boiled egg with his chopsticks.

Adam thinks of Blue and her ability to guilt people into doing things they were too held back to do on their own. Like talking Orla into asking out a cute delivery girl, or making Adam pay for her advice and wisdom by luring him into her band rehearsals.

“She helped me out with some stuff before and said I owed her.”

Noah drops his chopsticks into his half-eaten Styrofoam container of curry and looks at him intently.

“Really, like what?” he asks, grinning mischievously at Adam.

“Don’t be such a nosy bitch, Noah,” Ronan grumbles through a mouthful of ramen noodles, but Adam notes that his eyes keep drifting into Adam’s direction. Even Helen is looking at him curiously.

“Just, like, advice and support. I went through a bit of a rough patch and she was there for me, so then it was time for me to be there for her.”

“Well, that’s very sweet,” Helen says and Noah seems to agree.

“Yeah, that’s nice. So, Blue is a musician, too?” he asks.

The guilt from before is slowly creeping its way back into Adam’s brain. He should really tell Blue about all of this when he gets back to Brooklyn later.

“Yeah, we still work together from time to time, but our band broke up when some of the others moved away after college.”

“And you stayed?” Ronan asks, unexpectedly. Adam turns his attention to him.

“I had the opportunity to do a master’s so I stayed. And I doubt I’ll ever go back to Virginia,” Adam answers.

Noah chirps in again, asking about Adam’s college major (“We’re both engineers, how cool is that?”) and his home in Brooklyn. Adam learns about Noah’s affinity for Brooklyn hipster culture and laughs for a good five minutes as Noah tries to explain that he didn’t mean to be offensive and that he is, in fact, very serious and not poking fun at Adam.

“It’s alright,” he reassures the blushing Noah, “You should come visit my friend’s coffee shop some time and experience ‘Brooklyn hipster culture’ at its finest.”

This seems to peak Helen’s interest as well. Only Ronan, as Adam notes, is staring off into the distant skyline in boredom. Despite both being infinitely rich and, in Helen’s case, infinitely famous, his other two new acquaintances seem fairly easy-going and happy to have him there. Ronan, however, is something Adam can’t really wrap his head around, and it bothers him to no end. He seems happy enough to talk about music, but as soon as the conversation shifts to a personal topic, he bows out.

“Oh, I would love to go! Maybe we can all visit there sometime,” Noah says, excitedly drumming his fingers on the table.

Helen nods enthusiastically, “Speaking of group meetings... Adam, if you’re interested, I would really like to work with you on some other songs. I have some ideas I desperately want to pick your brain about.”

This comes as a surprise, Adam assumed this would be a one-time thing. Not that he’s complaining, this is a great opportunity for him.

“Sure, that would be great,” he replies, smiling politely at her.

“And I’ve already talked to Ronan about this, but Noah and Adam, what do you think of officially being on my team for my new album?”

Adam considers this for a moment. It would mean working closely together with these three people for a longer period of time, possibly stretching over multiple months or even a year, however long it would take to complete the album. He thinks about his contract with Cabeswater, how Declan stressed that as long as he delivers the amount of songwriting credits his contract requires there really are no limitations of how he works or who he collaborates with, given that the recording artist is signed to his label.

From across the table, Noah briefly makes eye contact with him and Adam finds this beyond ridiculous. Noah is a successful audio engineer, why would he need Adam’s reassurance on business matters?

“I’m in,” Noah says, “You know I love working with you, Helen.”

All eyes are now on Adam, even Ronan’s, whose disinterest seems forgotten.

“Yeah, I’m in, too,” Adam says and lets out a surprised laugh when Helen throws her one arm around Noah’s shoulders and one around Adam’s, pulling them in for a group hug.

“Get in here, Ronan!” he hears Noah say.

Adam can’t see him, but he feels the warmth of Ronan’s palm settle on his shoulder blade as he awkwardly attempts to join the embrace stretching over the small circular dining table.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkwardness galore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie, this took me ages until I was semi-happy with it. I hope you like it!
> 
> Songs for Chapter 4:  
> ∗ Sweet Holy Honey / Sango ft. Xavier Omär  
> ∗ Ocean Eyes / Billie Eilish

Ronan lies awake at night, letting the events of the afternoon replay over and over in his mind. This was perhaps the most exciting day he has had in a long time, from meeting Helen to listening to the perfect demo track to inviting over the song’s writer, Adam.

Adam. This is a thought that prevails. It stands out in Ronan’s mind like a sore thumb. It bothers him like a speck of dust in the eye, like a sock that has slipped off the heel. The memory of Adam is physically uncomfortable; it makes Ronan uneasy to think about his voice, melodic and clear in song, but with a twist to it in speak – a twist he can now precisely identify as Virginian. He thinks about the sandiness of Adam’s hair, the firmness of his handshake contrasting the nervous grip on his messenger bag, and the pleasant smile adorning his face when Ronan talked about the song’s production.

Outside of his window, the streets are loud and relentless. Sirens sound sharply in the distance, even the thirty-third floor is not safe from the vivid, spry city. Ronan wonders what it is like to fall asleep, or maybe toss and turn, in Brooklyn. Are the neighbourhoods quieter there? Are there more dogs barking and less taxi cabs honking? For a moment, Ronan allows himself to imagine Adam performing at his friend’s coffee shop. The fantasy from before, the image of the faceless pianist, completes itself in front of his inner eye. It is Adam, tall and elegant, sitting by an upright and looking out at the dark mass of the audience, looking at Ronan and smiling his pleasant smile. He begins to play, fingers gliding over the keys with immaculate precision –  then, an idea more inviting than fantasy teases Ronan out of bed.

As quietly as possible, so as not to disturb Noah, Ronan tip-toes down the hallway to the studio. He shut down all systems once they called it a day a couple of hours earlier, but the city lights through the window suffice and Ronan manages to reach his desk without stumbling over any cables. The carpet is rough against his bare feet, but it feels strangely grounding to be in his studio all by himself, with no one to impress and no one to satisfy. He almost feels fifteen again, a lonely teenager with no one but a computer and an overflowing brain to keep him company. Back then he would sit in his bedroom, stare out the window at glistening night time Manhattan, and wish for _something_. Something to ease the grief, something to hold him upright when he lost the will to do so himself. _Someone_.

Ronan shakes the reminiscent thought from his mind, so as to focus on his current mission. He double-checks the loudspeakers connected to the computer before switching it on silently. Once the desktop has loaded, he drag-and-drops the demo file into an empty email and sends it to himself. A faint sense of triumph wells up inside of him when he checks his phone and sees the email sitting in his inbox, and Ronan lets it wash over the budding guilt of allowing himself to act on desire and impulse.

Back in his room, Ronan settles onto his king size mattress with his favourite pair of headphones and presses play. Adam’s soft voice fills Ronan’s ears, his head, his body. Then sounds the key change before the bridge and the desperation, the begging, the fight before the song collapses, surrendering back into sorrow.

Listening to Adam’s song in the dark, by himself, Ronan understands the depth of it, empathises with the lyrics. It is more than just a beautiful tune, it is a disclosure of personal suffering, a manifestation of pain. _No_ , Ronan decides, it is an attempt at processing that pain and suffering.

Some people write music because they want to, because they like doing it. Ronan wonders if Adam is the same as him, wonders if Adam, too, needs to create lest his mind start devouring him from the inside.

 

* * *

 

When Adam gets back from Ronan’s that night, Orla is in the midst of closing up the coffee shop. He knocks on the glass door for her to let him in.

“Oh, hey, you’re back!” she says, a little out of breath. She looks tired, strands of her hair having escaped the band holding it together atop of her head.

“Yep,” Adam answers, granting the ‘p’ its full plosive effect, and sits down at his favourite spot at the bar. He thinks of all the therapeutic conversations have been held in exactly that spot, be it him in the seat and Orla or Blue behind the counter, or another formation of their tightly knit constellation. Sargent’s Café, although built on Orla’s business idea and expertise, has become their thing, the centre of their small universe.

“How was it?” Orla asks. She doesn’t wait for his answer, instead dropping the rag she was wiping down tables with into the sink behind the counter and grabbing a glass from the dishwasher and filling it with tap water.

“Yeah, about that…”

Adam watches her empty half of the glass and setting the rest down on the counter. Guilt has been clawing at him for most of the afternoon, intensifying once he left Ronan’s and was alone with his thoughts on the subway. Guilt for violating the confidentiality agreement in his contract with Cabeswater by telling Orla about Helen. Guilt for not telling Blue about Helen and lying to her instead. Guilt for having no other choice but to ask Orla to continue keeping this secret for him.

“Orla, I really shouldn’t have told you anything,” Adam starts, feeling uneasiness churning in his stomach.

For a moment, Orla stares at him as if he just asked her to attempt a backflip, or something similarly ridiculous.

“You know me, I won’t tell a soul,” she says, back to her usual expression, “Honestly, I’m kinda offended you’d think I’d even be at risk of spilling your secret.”

Adam realises that his breathing has become shallow and forces himself to take a deep breath. He adds guilt for not trusting one of his closest friends and proceeding to rub it in her face to his list of reasons why he should lie awake at night and let doubt and shame gnaw at him. He doesn’t deserve her friendship, and yet.

 “Look,” Orla says, placing her hand atop of his, “I promise.”                                                     

Adam cannot think of a single thing he has ever done to deserve having someone like Orla in his life.

“Thanks,” is the only answer he can come up with. Orla lends him a gentle smile, pats his hand once, and moves to put her glass in the dishwasher.

“You wanna come up and hang out for the rest of the night?” she asks him whilst tugging at the knot holding her apron in place.

Adam considers this for a moment, but the truth is he is tired from a long day, the constant high of his adrenaline level, fuelled by his worries and caffeine intake, have really worn him out.

“I have the early morning shift tomorrow, I really should get some sleep tonight.”

“Oh, right. Make sure you change the specials board, tomorrow is Fudge Friday,” Orla tells him. She gestures towards the front door behind him, wordlessly asking him to step out with her so she can lock up. Adam grabs his bag from where it is sat by his feet, hops off the bar stool and follows her outside.

“If it’s Fudge Friday, isn’t Mae delivering tomorrow at seven?” he asks as Orla fumbles with her keyring. She stiffens visibly at the mention of the girl from the patisserie a couple of blocks down the road.

“So?”

“So why am I working the morning shift when you’re the one with a crush on Mae?” Adam wonders out loud.

“I don’t have a crush on Mae,” Orla stresses. She checks the lock on the door before turning to the sidewalk, rushing ahead of Adam. It is only a few steps around the corner to the entrance of her apartment building above the café, and Adam is quick to catch up.

“You don’t?”

He distinctly remembers juggling the morning rush by himself a couple of weeks ago because Orla was busy chatting up the delivery girl.

“No,” she says intently, turning to face him.

“All right, okay,” Adam says, lifting both hands in defence.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night?”

Adam nods and tells her goodbye. Orla disappears into the building, and he is left on the empty sidewalk. The neighbourhood is eerily silent this time of night, and Adam walks the distance to his own home quickly and quietly. The second-floor studio apartment is a tight space and the streetlight from outside is harsh on the gnarled hardwood floor, mostly because Adam has not found time to install curtains or blinds as of yet. It fits everything he needs, though: a twin-size mattress on a worn-out Ikea bedframe, a small kitchen unit, a desk he tries his best to keep tidy. Shoved into a corner next to his bed are Adam’s most prized possessions: an old keyboard he bought from a shady guy on craigslist his sophomore year of college, and the battered guitar he found at a thrift store. The instruments are sub-par at best, but Adam has always prided himself in making the best of an unfortunate situation.

For a moment, Adam contemplates dragging his desk chair over to the keyboard, plugging in some headphones and playing until his fingers start to ache and he grows weary of the melody ringing in his ears. Instead, he strips out of his jacket and jeans, brushes his teeth, and buries himself under his comforter.

Adam has barely relaxed when he hears his phone buzzing from across the room. He considers ignoring it for a minute, but the vibration tone sounds again and eventually, curiosity wins its battle against exhaustion. Groaning, Adam heaves himself out of the comfort of his bed and retrieves his phone from the back pocket of the pants he wore earlier. He is surprised to find two messages from Noah.

[Noah]: _good to meet you today, adam :)_

[Noah]: _we’re all so excited to have you on the team! helen said to tell you that she can’t wait to see you again this weekend and work on vocals & adapting lyrics. ronan and i are really impressed with you too!_

Helen asked him to text Adam just to tell him she is looking forward to working with him again. Noah and Ronan are _impressed_ with him. Adam has trouble believing that this is really happening to him, and he feels strangely out of place thinking about this work arrangement. Part of him cannot let go of his trailer park roots; it is that same part that tells him Noah is only pulling a prank, only messing with him. _Imposter syndrome_ , Blue would probably tell him now, _you’re better than you think you are._ And maybe he is. _Ronan Lynch_ is impressed with him.

Before Adam can reply, another text from Noah lands in his inbox.

[Noah]: _i was thinking of taking you up on that offer about coming to your friend’s coffee shop. would you wanna hang out there tomorrow?_

Adam tells him that yes, he would love to hang out, but he will only be at the coffee shop during his shift since he needs to hit the library afterwards. He receives Noah’s understanding reply mere seconds later, in which he tells him not to worry and that he would love to just experience ‘the culture’ of a Brooklyn café.

With a smile on his face and warmth settling in his heart, Adam falls back into bed and is out for the night within mere minutes.

 

* * *

 

 

Adam’s alarm goes off just after five am the next morning. Sighing heavily, he realises just how tired he still is, despite the previous night granting him more sleep than usual. Mornings at the café are hectic, but he much prefers them to the early shifts he used to work at the auto repair shop. After a quick shower, Adam heads to work.

Sargent’s Café doesn’t open until six thirty, but Adam likes to make sure he has plenty of time to prepare for the day. Before any deliveries arrive, he re-writes all the specials boards and shoves a load of buns and croissants into the oven. The espresso machine is up and running and he has prepared a tray of breakfast sandwiches when Blue arrives, just a couple of minutes before the café is supposed to open.

“Morning,” she says and drops her purse onto the floor by the coat rack in the break room.

“Hey, good morning,” Adam greets her. Tension tightens his shoulders, but he tries his best to seem unaffected.

Blue loops an apron around her neck, wraps the cotton ties so they loop her waist once and then turns her back to Adam, holding out the ends for him to tie. Adam drops the tongs he used to stack the finished sandwiches into the display and moves over to Blue. For a moment, he is hopeful that maybe she has grown tired of pestering him about his new job, but he should know better than to think she would keep her nose out of his business. In their friendship, everything was everyone’s business. And everything was Blue’s business, in particular.

“How was your date?” she asks. Adam can’t really fault her for it.

“It was fine,” he answers whilst tying the apron tight at her back.

“Thanks,” Blue says and turns around to face him, wondering, “Just fine?”

“It was nice,” Adam forces himself to answer. _Lying by omission is still lying_ , he can almost hear her preach.

He knows he should say _something_ , anything to make this situation feel less strange.

“A friend’s coming over to the café later,” he decides to spill. This she would find out eventually, anyway. Helen’s name does not have to come up; Noah certainly will not mention it.

Blue raises an eyebrow at this.

“A new friend?”

“Yeah. From work.”

It does not take Blue more than the blink of an eye to deduce the implication carried in this statement. _Oh_.

Instead of gracing him with an answer, Blue moves to the espresso machine to serve herself some coffee.

“He’s nice, you’ll like him,” Adam tries.

“I’m sure.”

 

* * *

 

The morning rush is not as bad that day, and they make it through the first three hours of the shift without any complaints from hurried customers. By ten, the café is quiet for the most part and Adam uses this window of opportunity to take his break.

Blue calls him from the front of the shop a few minutes later. A glance at his watch tells him that it is not time for the lunch time frenzy yet, but he is not left to wonder why his break is cut short for very long.

Noah and Ronan are standing by the counter, side by side, one smiling and the other frowning.

“Adam, hey!” Noah calls when he spots him coming out of the staff room.

“Hi, Noah,” Adam says, eyes shifting to meet Ronan’s glowering look.

“Hey,” he says, and Ronan uncrosses his arms. The line between his brows softens and he nods at Adam.

“Hey.”

Blue turns her head to make a point of looking at Adam, a gesture he understands to mean _introduce us._

“This is Blue,” Adam says, pointing to where she stands by the coffee machine. Noah lifts a hand to wave, Ronan merely nods.

“Blue, this is Noah,” he says, gesturing towards the pale blond, “and that’s Ronan,” he continues, waving to the taller of the two. _God_ , Adam muses, _Ronan is really_ _tall._

Blue seems far from impressed by them, and simply asks for their orders. They sit down at a small table by the window and shortly after, Adam brings over a mocha for Noah and a cappuccino for Ronan.

“There you go,” Adam says as he sets the cup down in front of Ronan, who hums in thanks.

After making sure that Blue doesn’t need his help, Adam sits down to spend the rest of his break with his newfound friends. Noah grills him about his job at the café, about his master’s thesis, his life in Brooklyn. It feels strange to reveal so much about himself to someone he has barely known for twenty-four hours, Adam notes, but Noah makes him feel as if they have been friends forever. Meanwhile, Ronan seems to have softened from his earlier mood and even throws a quip or two his way. They sit and chat for a while, and Adam learns about Noah’s life in LA, and how he and Ronan became best friends after working together on Ronan’s first solo project.

A group of teenagers enters the café sometime around eleven, cackling up a storm. Adam suspects that they are skipping school, but he doesn’t dare to mention it because he knows Blue will chastise him for shooing away perfectly good customers. Instead, he goes to take the group’s orders once they settle into a nook near Noah and Ronan.

When he goes to prepare the drinks, Blue elbows him in the ribs and nods towards the seating area at the front of the shop. She waits for the coffee machine to start dripping a shot of espresso into foamed milk before speaking.

“Buzzcut has been staring at you the entire time. What’s up with that?”

This puzzles Adam, because Ronan did not seem all too taken by the conversation they were having earlier and Adam certainly did not notice his eyes linger on him. Polite and nodding along interestedly, yes; but he was nowhere near as inquisitive as Noah. It was virtually impossible to establish eye contact with Ronan, Adam recalls.

“No, he hasn’t,” Adam says, although part of him wants Blue to reassure him that Ronan did indeed spare him more than a passing glance.

“Seriously,” she says, but before she can elaborate the latte is done and they fall back into taut silence.

Blue throws him a challenging look, one eyebrow raised in the guilt-evoking Sargent fashion, and slowly backs away into the kitchen.

“I’m gonna go check on the focaccia. Make sure I don’t mess up this new recipe because I wasn’t paying attention,” she says; an ordinary utterance, but her tone is ominous.

“What new focaccia recipe?” Adam asks, well aware that Blue probably is not worried about messing up a batch of Italian bread.

“Oh, you know! The new, fancy one!” Blue calls from the kitchen, but Adam cannot decide whether she means well-intended mockery or passive aggression. With Blue, it is anyone’s guess.

Back behind the counter after serving the group of teenagers, Adam entertains the idea of Ronan’s eyes on him. The thought of the producer wanting and choosing to regard someone like Adam seems odd to him, almost inappropriate, and Adam is itching to look over at Ronan in a counteroffensive. The urge grows exponentially in relation to the time he spends thinking about Ronan absorbing his appearance. Adam almost wishes he could doubt Blue’s sincerity. This is dangerous territory, and he is painfully aware of that.

Lost in thought, Adam does not notice the figure by the counter until he hears the bell above the front door chime to announce a new customer, attracting his attention. He looks up from the tray of coffee mugs he has been busying himself with to spot Ronan standing in front of him. As their eyes meet, Ronan produces a credit card from his coat pocket, holding it up in a nonchalant gesture.

“Oh, sorry, I would’ve been with you in a second, you didn’t have to come up to the counter-,“ Adam starts, only to be interrupted by Ronan grinning sardonically and spinning the card between thumb and pointer finger.

“Relax, Parrish,” he says and hands Adam the credit card.

“Coffee was great, by the way,” Ronan adds as Adam pulls up their bill on the register.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. That’ll be seven dollars and twenty cents,” Adam replies, looking for Ronan’s confirmation. The producer merely nods. A curious sensation uncurls in Adam’s abdomen, smouldering and swelling with nothing but a curt moment of meeting Ronan’s gaze.

_Wait. What?_

Adam has no time to ponder on the state of his emotions; as soon as the transaction is completed and Ronan has pocketed his card, his phone goes off. The shrill sound of the electronica ringtone takes Adam aback.

Ronan fiddles with his phone, cursing as he struggles to pull it out of a small zip pocket at the side of his coat. All of a sudden, Noah appears by his side, smiling cheerily at Adam.

“Thanks for having us,” he says at the same time as Ronan says, “Fucking asshole!”

Adam is unsure if violently pressing buttons and smashing your thumb onto the screen is the best method, but eventually Ronan manages to decline the call. He looks eternally relieved as he stuffs the phone back into his coat.

“This was fun!” Noah says, his tone blithely and unbothered by the scene that just unfolded in front of him. Perhaps Ronan bursts out in anger over incoming phone calls on the regular and he has simply gotten used to it.

Then, Noah shoves his elbow into Ronan’s ribs, muttering something unintelligible from Adam’s position behind the counter. Ronan starts fiddling with his coat pocket again, but for a moment, Adam is distracted by the rattle of the beaded curtain behind him as Blue reappears from the kitchen. She sets down a tray of focaccia onto the worktop, cut into perfect rectangles, and starts transferring the bread into the display. Then, she stops dead in her tracks to throw a funny look at Ronan.

“Where’s that music coming from?”

It all happens very fast. The tune from Ronan’s phone increases in volume when he finally frees it from its polyester confines.

“Fuck!” he exclaims, but his swears are drowned out by the sound of Adam’s demo track.

It does not take long for Ronan to manage to press pause since Adam’s voice on the recording is cut off halfway through the first verse, but it feels like an eternity passes by. Ocean eyes are wide and seemingly searching for any focal point that is not Adam; a flush is creeping its way onto his face. A myriad of emotions flood Adam’s brain in the brief moment of silence until Ronan turns and rushes out the door, his mouth once again fizzing with profanities. Through the glass front of the shop, Adam watches him run both hands over his shaved head and turn his face up towards the sky for a second before he disappears around the corner.

“Well,” Noah tries, still cheerful, “It was nice to meet you, Blue.”

“You too,” Blue answers, and Adam sees her return his smile.

Noah turns to him, “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

Adam feels himself nodding.

“Yeah,” he manages, and waves a faint goodbye when Noah turns back once more to smile apologetically before leaving the café.

A flock of people in business attire seeps through the door, robbing Adam of the opportunity to try and make sense of what just happened and, above all, Ronan’s reaction. Blue eyes him conspicuously as he takes a to-go order at the counter, but remains quiet, wandering off to wait on a newly occupied table.

Adam has no idea what to make of this situation. Obviously, Ronan, in his button-pushing frenzy, must have pressed play on his phone’s music collection. Adam should not be shocked, it is probably just what producers do. They keep demo tracks on their phones to listen to them on the go, in case inspiration strikes. And yet, Adam cannot stop thinking about Ronan.

Ronan, blushing and wide-eyed as if caught red-handed. It was probably nothing. Ronan, feeling shame which then unfolds into anger, into curses. _Relax, Lynch_ , Adam thinks. Ronan, spinning the Platinum Card between deft fingers. _If this means nothing, why did you run_.

Absent-mindedly, he prepares a cappuccino instead of a latte. For the rest of the day, Adam cannot top beating himself up over the customer’s chiding, or over the Ronan Lynch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But wait, what was that about Orla again?
> 
> Next chapter probably won't be up for a while since I have a lotttt to do over the next week and a half. I'll try my best to work on it next weekend, though. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Don't forget to check out the playlist (linked in Ch1) if you want to listen to a playlist tailored specifically to this fic.
> 
> x


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